


To Die With The Sun

by loopyzoop



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Drarry, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, I don't know what I'm doing, I'm Sorry, M/M, Sad Draco Malfoy, Songfic, drarry angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2019-02-07 21:25:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12849822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loopyzoop/pseuds/loopyzoop
Summary: Oh my love, you don't know what you do to me.





	To Die With The Sun

**Author's Note:**

> First of all: I'm very sorry. Second of all: I'm still, terribly sorry. As always, kudos and comments mean the absolute world to me! Thank you for reading.

  
_You’re the northern wind, sending shivers down my spine._  
_You’re like fallen leaves in an autumn night._

“You never told me you could dance.”

Draco says this with a smile — it’s a ridiculous, goofy, wine drunk smile that Harry’s just now realizing is his favourite. It’s the most open he’s ever seen the other man be before. The warm glow of the fireplace is splashed across his flushed face, which he partially attributes to the alcohol, and partially decides is the fault of his dancing partner.

“You never asked,” Harry replies simply.

Draco shakes his head as Harry pulls him closer. His heart is thudding against his ribcage, and as desperately as he tries he can’t hide the natural nerves and excitement that spring up from the contact. He shudders when Harry runs a hand softly down his cheek, and leans in. As far as first kisses go, it’s not half bad.

 

 _You’re the lullaby, that’s singing me to sleep._  
_You are the other half, you’re like a missing piece._

Flashing, burning, clanking metal, dark dungeons. There’s a fire. There’s a crash. There’s a scream.

Draco wakes with a shout, fighting for breath desperately. He’s aware that surrounding his legs are silky blue sheets, but he kicks free of them in terror. The only light in the bedroom comes from the pale glow of the streetlights through sheer curtains, and his eyes dart around for something to focus on, choking back a pathetic cry.

“Hey,” a voice comes from beside him, and there’s something warm about it that spreads through his veins. He snaps towards it, grappling in the blackness anxiously.

“Hey, you’re OK. It’s me.”

_Harry._

Somehow this thought forces a broken sob out of Draco. _It’s just Harry._

Harry grabs hold of the blond’s wrist, carefully sitting up and pulling himself as close as he’ll dare as Draco inhales deep, shaky breaths.

“I’m sorry,” Draco finally spits out.

“Shh, I love you,” Harry says. He’s rubbing circles on the inside of Draco’s thin wrist, waiting for the thundering pulse to slow. When it finally begins to even out he places a kiss in place of his thumb, and wraps a sturdy arm around Draco’s shoulders.

For the first time, Draco cries in front of him.

 

  
_You are all four seasons rolled into one._  
_You’re like the cold December snow in the warm July sun._

“You’ve got something on your nose,” Harry’s giggling, leaning against the counter across from his boyfriend.

Draco swats at his face, wiping away the flour that had somehow made its way there in the process of baking a ridiculous batch of Christmas cookies.

He had never had a desire to cut out shapes of trees and stars and sleighs from shortbread before, but somehow Harry always got him to rise to a challenge. Their bakeoff had been mostly successful — Harry had created a pan of perfect, golden brown treats. Draco had created a mess.

Draco turns to the sink, basking in the winter sun as he scrubs away at a pan, when he feels it: Harry’s hand in his hair. More specifically, Harry’s hand in his hair… _full of flour_.

Draco reaches up, mouth dropping open, and pulls a dusted white hand through the blond strands. He whirls around. “You did not just do what I think you did.”

Harry’s laughing hysterically now, and while Draco is fuming he can’t help the flutter in his chest because God damn it, he’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. That doesn’t stop him from grabbing a handful of flour and aiming it directly at Harry’s face, however.

 

  
_I’m the jet black sky, that’s just before the rain._  
_Like the mighty current, pulling you under the waves._

Draco is angry. His day has been shit, his week has been shit, everything has been shit.  
He misses his mother, he wishes she were there just to tell him what to do. He knows he’s being hostile when Harry comes home, he knows it’s not his fault. It isn’t long before they’re fighting, and he knows he’s being a dick. He can’t help it. It’s who he is. Then Harry makes some grouchy comment about Draco ignoring him, and he snaps.

“For fuck sakes, I’m just _thinking_! You should try it out sometime,” he says.

Harry instantly goes on the defensive. “I’m trying to talk to you. You know, communicating? You should try that out sometime.”

“Christ, Potter, not everything is about you. I know people like to tell you that, but I’ve got news.”

“Oh fuck off,” Harry snaps, standing up abruptly. “Pardon me for wanting to say hello to my boyfriend who I’ve barely seen all week!”

Draco rolls his eyes at this. “I’ve been here, where were you? Oh, that’s right. Out for drinks with Weasley.”

“That was one night!”

Draco leans back against the couch and huffs out an angry sigh. “Can you just… not? Right now?” he grumbles.

Harry leaves the room without a word, and Draco’s usual guilt rushes through him. His head is pounding and his heart is aching.

He finds Harry in bed half an hour later and curls up with him, the whole room blue with the pale light of dusk, and the Gryffindor’s dark hair fanned out against the stark white of the pillowcase.

“I’ll make dinner,” Draco whispers against the warmth of the other man’s neck.

Harry nods, and turns his head so that their foreheads are pressed closely together. Draco kisses him softly, and Harry smiles. “Apology accepted.”

 

  
_I’m the darkest hour, just before the dawn._  
_And I’m slowly sinking into the slough of despond._

12:03 AM.

He lived to see one last day. Three minutes, just past midnight.

Draco thinks that this is simultaneously uplifting and depressing — he isn’t sure which to focus on first.

The mission had gone bad, at least that’s what Kingsley had said, but he barely hears him. The curse had been slow, stopping organ after organ, and healers rush around the bed. When Draco finally arrives he is struggling for air. The spells had become useless. Harry’s lungs are collapsing.

_Somebody help him, fucking hell, help him! God damn it, save him!_

Draco screams the same words over and over until his voice is hoarse, and when Harry’s heart begins to slow, he comes to the realization that there is nothing more they can do. Draco lets his forehead fall against Harry’s cheek, and finds it wet. Harry had been crying. Somehow this hurts more than anything else.

He swears he can feel the blackness take him.

 

  
_Like an old guitar, worn out and left behind._  
_I have stories still to tell, they’re of the healing kind._

The concrete step is cold beneath Draco, and he grips the edge so hard the stone leaves indents in his palms. Pansy holds a hand against his back. The sun is coming up, all bright orange and pink and yellow, reflecting off the window panes of the city.

“Come on, love,” Pansy says. Her voice is not warm, but it is comforting all the same, and with one brutal push Draco stands. For a moment he is not sure if his legs will even support him, but he takes one stumbling step upwards and finds his strength.

The house — _their house_ — is looming above him.

“I don’t know if I can go inside,” Draco’s voice is weak, broken down.

Pansy nods, following Draco’s gaze up to the home that towers over them. “You can.”

Draco lets out a shaky breath, and reaches for the door.

 

_Oh my love, if I could just find you tonight._  
_If I could just find you tonight… oh, my love._

He had expected the nightmares to come sooner. He knew that they would, dreamless sleep had become near useless, and he hated the bitter taste that it left on his tongue.

Yet the first night that he awakens under a sheen of sweat, heart crushing inwards as if a great weight had dropped upon his chest, each rib breaking, each breath more excruciating than the last — he weeps. Draco weeps, and screams, until his throat is dry and it hurts just to take in air. He fists the sheets and lets out a terrible choking sob, and it feels as if someone cut him straight down the middle, as if everything is pouring out.

The bed beside him is empty.

The room is blue.

He grasps the pillow beside him, and silences his screams.

The night goes on.

 

 

 


End file.
